


Irresolution Doesn't Suit You, Or Me, Or Anybody

by DontOffendTheBees



Category: The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: (not too much though just some weird blueness and some funky eye stuff), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Canon Character Deaths Mentioned, Character Study, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injury Recovery, Introspection, Moving On, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Supportive Relationship, other TGWDLM characters mentioned, post-let it out pre-inevitable, sad cuties supporting sad cuties, semi canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 07:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontOffendTheBees/pseuds/DontOffendTheBees
Summary: “And… how will we know? When I'm safe?”“Heck if I know, Paul. But I'm sure Doctor Maheswaran has her theories. Can't let you loose ‘til she's sure you're not… y’know.”“Infectious?” He gulped.“Dangerous?”“I was gonna say riddled with alien cooties, but you get the gist. Nothing personal, Paul.”In which Paul just has to carry on, no matter what.Canon divergence after Let It Out, sort of a fix-it fic.
Relationships: Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins
Comments: 34
Kudos: 83





	1. Looking Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-ho here I goooo
> 
> I've been working on this one for a while, since before Black Friday's youtube release, and after that didn't give me any other concrete 'what happened next' ideas for Paul and Emma aside from timey-wimey alternate universe/groundhog day stuff I found I still wanted to write my own little fix-it/recovery fic for them, so here we are! Although it's not exactly 'little' anymore. In fact, this one-shot has become a two-shot, because it was already getting long and I figured you could divide it quite neatly into two sections between the change of setting. I promise part two is in the works and about halfway there, so it shouldn't be forever til I update!
> 
> This sticks with canon up to Paul blowing up the meteor, and then completely diverges. It's mostly from Paul's POV, although one of these days I might write the Emma POV version too, I think it could be interesting! (read: angsty) It features HalfInfected!Paul, so turn back now if that's not your jam- he's not having a good time bless him. It also takes place largely in hospital, features some light body horror elements in Paul's current half-infected state, and deals with anxiety, grieving, injuries/disability and physical/mental recovery. It's not graphic, or even that heavy/hard-hitting compared to some tgwdlm fics I've read, but tread carefully anyhow! Also please do not expect scientific/medical accuracy from me ejkfdghbnjkdhnsfgfdf
> 
> (also there's a couple of incidental cameo side-characters popping up for plot purposes, and because I was blanking on characters to use for the particular roles I'll just tell you right now that they're not starkid ones. There's a Steven Universe nod, and an In The Flesh nod, just because those shows are on my mind and they have characters that roughly fitted the roles I needed filling.)
> 
> Chapter one is pretty much Paul-exclusive, v.introspective and recovery based, chapter two will feature more Emma, more banter and some soft to counterbalance the sad!
> 
> Also I didn't draw the linebreak watches, I've misplaced the exact link but they're a free-for-noncommercial-reuse clip art from google images! Just thought it added a little something ^^
> 
> Title from Moscow (*dark humourless Black Friday-watcher laugh*) by Autoheart- it's not *the* most relevant to this fic, but it that particular line is and it's on my Paulkins playlist anyway!
> 
> Enjoy <333

When he opened his eyes to sterile, soulless white, he almost cried. Anything, _anything_ was better than all that fucking _blue._

Paul blinked slowly, acclimatising to the light. Not too harsh, but artificial, cold, shining down from parallel fluorescents on the ceiling- not bright enough to burn his eyes, thankfully, although one of them was flickery. _That_ was gonna drive him insane. He lowered his eyes to the rest of the room. Off-white walls, one long, high window like a letterbox, a rolling trolley full of… _things_ that Paul didn’t wanna look too closely at, or he’d start guessing their purpose and _really_ freak himself out. He was starting to piece together the info, though; he was in hospital. Maybe. He’d never spent much time in them before; he was a cautious person with crappy health insurance, he did what he could to stay healthy. But it had that lifetime movie hospital vibe for sure, although the heart monitor by the bed wasn’t beeping the way he would’ve expected.

It took him longer than it should have to realise it was _his_ heart monitor, his bed. His room.

“Ugh,” he muttered, looking down at his chest. Hospital gown mint was not his colour. He didn’t think it was _anyone’s_ colour. He reached up to tug at a crease across his chest, but his hand stopped an inch off the bed. Which was about the time he realised it was strapped down- and still, despite all his other clothes missing, wearing McNamara’s watch. “What the…” He stared at the skin around it. Swollen, almost absorbing the watch, mottled blue and purple and ready to pop like a balloon. _“Jeez…”_

“You are one lucky S.O.B, Matthews.”

Paul flinched, tearing his eyes away from his busted wrist to face the voice.

A woman stood in the doorway. Black clothes, black cap, red hair escaping it in ringlets round her face. “You were Kentucky fried when we pulled you outta the Starlight, kid. Thought for sure you were a goner.” She strode in with purpose, hands folded behind her back, coming to stand at the foot of his bed like a sentry. “Nearly shipped you off with the rest of ‘em, ‘til you started talkin’.”

“The rest of- what, I’m- what do you…?”

“Figured you wouldn’t remember. You’re lucky your brain even made it out in one piece- well. That we know of.”

“...I’m lost.”

“Ain’t you just,” she said sympathetically, shaking her head. “Well, guess I’ll getcha up to speed; what’s the last thing you remember, Paul?”

“I was… There was a helicopter, and… and the grenades. I was going to the theatre, I… Jesus, the _music,_ I-”

“That’s about the size of it, son.” She walked over to pat his arm. It was probably supposed to be comforting, but truth be told it kinda hurt. She was _not_ gentle. “You marched in there, guns a-blazin’, took on the hivemind single-handed. Real ballsy move, Matthews. You’re a living legend, to those in the know. Those in the know being us, of course; hi. Colonel Schaeffer, P.E.I.P. Gotta say, it's a real honor to be talkin’ to you; lotta folks never thought you'd last the night, let alone the month.”

“I…” Pieces were falling into place, but the picture was impossible to reconcile. “I pulled the pin.”

“You sure did. Big explosion. _Hell_ of a clean-up.”

“But- how can I be…?”

“Alive?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the million dollar question, Paul.” She grabbed his chart and flicked through it, squinting at what was probably jargon and chicken scratch. “Got the finest medical minds on the case. But you got yourself a big ‘ol lungful of spores, reckon that helped. I was first on the scene at the Starlight, and lemme tell you, those alien bastards are resilient. Had to put bullets in heads, even the ones on fire.”

“So I’m- they…” his fists clenched so hard his nails bit into his palms. “They got me.”

“Sorta.”

_“Sorta?”_

“We’re still figuring that part out.”

“I should be- fuck, I should be dead, I should be- why haven’t you killed me? Oh, god, are you gonna kill me?!”

“Not if we can help it, son.”

“Why? Why am I _here?”_

She smiled, hanging up the chart. “‘Cause you’re special, Paul. All the others, they were long gone, but you… boy, even after hours inhaling those spores, you were fighting. You resisted the contagion, even when it was saving your life- docs wanted to know what was up with that, so we brought you here. Along with some control subjects, neutralised ones. Just to see what we’re working with.”

“You mean- some of them are still _alive?!”_ Paul struggled in his restraints, but either they were crazy strong or he was weak as a kitten. “No, no you gotta- you gotta kill them! They won't stop unless you-!”

“Easy, Paul: we got this covered.”

“No, no you don't understand- if they get loose, they'll infect us all!”

“Well, it sure is a good thing they won't. Anyway, you got more pressing things to think about, son- like kicking this contagion’s ass and getting better.”

Paul gritted his teeth. Even the idea of more of those _things_ hanging around set his stomach on edge worse than being stuck on the wrong end of the happy birthday song, but it's not like there was anything he could do about it. Not in his position. “Why… why hasn't it taken me yet?”

“Still looking into that, Paul. But chief contender is that old thing.” She pointed, confusingly, at the watch on his wrist.

“My- my _watch?”_

“Yep. Familiar old thing.” Her face softened. “Lil’ gift from McNamara, right?”

“Yeah, he… he gave it to me.” Paul shrugged. “He kinda trashed my iPhone.”

She threw her head back. “Ha! Classic John.”

“What does an old watch have to do with anything?”

“Everything, would ya believe.” She reached out and tapped the watch- carefully avoiding the swollen flesh around it. “Turns out this thing's an antique. Back when they made this, they were still painting watch dials with radium.”

_“Radium?!”_

“Oh, you're perfectly safe, son. More than; this lil’ gizmo might have just saved your life.”

“How?”

“Eh, to be honest I wasn't really following. Something ‘bout radiation interrupting your apotheosomething. I'll send your doc in, she'll be able to tell you more than me. Long story short, your alien virus sure don't like that thing-” she nodded to his swollen, discolored skin around the watch. He had to agree that seemed like a solid guess. “So it's pretty damn important that it stays on, least until we know you're outta the woods. Sorry ‘bout the restraints, by the way- can't be too careful, obviously.”

“And… how will we know? When I'm safe?”

“Heck if I know, Paul. But I'm sure Doctor Maheswaran has her theories. Can't let you loose ‘til she's sure you're not… y’know.”

“Infectious?” He gulped. _“Dangerous?”_

“I was gonna say riddled with alien cooties, but you get the gist. Nothing personal, Paul.”

Paul looked at the blue mottling on his arm, unease settling rock hard in his stomach. “...How bad is it?”

“...I'll level with ya, Matthews. You probably won't be winning any beauty pageants anytime soon.”

He never would have expected that in the first place, but that was beside the point. “But- but they don't show, when they take people over it's- they don't _look_ different.”

“Those people don't put up a fight. The spores in you are puttin’ in the overtime.”

“I want to see.”

“You sure about that?”

He wasn't. Not even a little. But whatever the truth was, it couldn't be worse than whatever his imagination would conjure up if he didn't rip off the band aid right now. “Yeah. I'm sure.”

Schaeffer sighed, and rooted around in her pocket. “If you insist; but don't say I didn't warn you. Here we go…” She pulled out a make-up mirror, about the size of her palm, and held it out to him sagely. “Don't worry bout it too much, Matthews. For what it's worth, I've seen much, _much_ worse.”

Paul took a shaky breath, and nodded. Without taking her eyes off his face, Schaeffer flipped the mirror open and held it up for him to see.

When he met his own eyes in the reflection, he nearly gagged. “Oh- oh, _god…”_

It really _wasn't_ as bad as it could have been, that much was true. If someone walked past him in the street, they might even mistake him for normal, just some clumsy guy with some burns and scrapes. It wasn't until you looked closer that the _wrong_ ness hit. It was the spots, across his cheeks and nose, that looked like dark freckles ‘til you got a closer look and saw that they were strangely iridescent and coloured a deep cobalt. It was the sallow skin, the shadows in his cheeks, the subtle, sickly shift in undertone that came from once red blood running blue. The cold, corpse-like tinge of his lips, his hairline, the raw edges of his cuts and scabs. But worst of all it was the eyes- still just as blue as they'd ever been, but… _shattered._ The borders between pupil and iris and sclera all broken, black and blue and white bleeding and blending like oil slick, occasional traces of movement in the sick way cells of colour would split into two and drift apart, every hue desperately trying to multiply itself and battle for dominance, bubbling grotesquely on the surface.

“Don't lose hope, son,” said Schaeffer, voice softening a little, trying to be comforting. “You ain't lost the war, yet.

He screwed his eyes shut, shook his head, if he could move his hands he knew he'd be clawing his own face- _they got him._ They got him and he was infected and he was one of them and if they didn't kill him fast he'd keep spreading it _why haven't they just killed him-_

A slap across the face broke that spiral. _“Ow!_ What the-?”

“That's quittin’ talk, Matthews, and I won't stand for it.”

“Colonel, please don't assault my patients,” came a withering voice from the doorway.

“Sorry, ma’am- he was gettin’ hysterical.”

Paul, who hadn't even been aware he'd been saying all that stuff out loud, shrunk in on himself. “W-what’s going to happen to me?”

“With any luck, a nearly full recovery,” said the doctor as she strode in, taking up his chart and jotting something down. She was a tall, confident woman, with a non-nonsense energy. Reassuring, if not overly friendly. “Up to sixty percent of regular physical and psychological acuity, we're pretty optimistic.”

“Si-sixty percent isn't _nearly fu-”_

“Give or take. Sorry, sir; we really have absolutely no precedent to draw from. You're the only person ever to make full, intravenous contact with these creatures and live.”

Schaeffer, over the doctor's shoulder, mouthed _‘living legend’_ at him with a wink.

“You're making great progress, Mr Matthews,” the doctor reassured him, in a decidedly better bedside manner to her military buddy- although she still seemed just a little too buzzed with scientific curiosity to totally put his mind at ease. “We'll have you home in no time.”

“...Home?” Fuck, he hated the way hope took root in his chest. Made it even suckier when Schaeffer stomped it out half a second later.

“Not Hatchetfield, I'm afraid- not much of it left standing. But we'll get you set up somewhere, no problem- you're under the protection of the US federal government now, son.”

“So it's…” God, his mouth was dry. Was he thirsty? He must be thirsty. “It's all gone?”

“‘Fraid so.”

“And what about… what about everyone else?”

She looked at him sadly. “There were no survivors. That's the official story, Paul, and we're sticking to it.”

“But- but someone must have-”

“Paul-”

 _“Emma._ Emma Perkins.” He sounded desperate and he knew it, he didn’t care. He risked everything to save Emma, she _had_ to be okay, there was no reason for her _not_ to be. “She was far away from the meteor when it blew, there's no way she could have-!”

 _“Matthews._ I am not at liberty to disclose any information regarding the deceased of the Hatchetfield Catastrophe. I'm sorry.”

He narrowed his eyes. “...She's not dead.”

“Paul…”

“No, no- she's _not_ dead- I mean, if she _was_ you'd just come out with it, right? Where is she? Is she okay?”

“I've said all I'm gonna say on this, Matthews-”

_“You're lyin’ to me again, lady-”_

She jumped. _Paul_ jumped. That- that wasn't his voice. Those weren't his _words._ High, drawn out- _melodic._ “Shit, I- I'm sorry, I don't- _I dunnooo just what's happening to me-_ FUCK _.”_

“Mr Matthews, please; it's very important that you keep calm.”

He shook his head, wriggling against his restraints. “I - it's not _me_ , it's- oh, for the love of god, _where's Emma?”_

Schaeffer sighed, folding her hands behind her back. “Doc?”

At her word something small and sharp prodded Paul in the arm, and amongst the sound of straining leather straps and delirious, unfamiliar musical snippets erupting from his own mouth, the hospital room began to slip away to black once more.

Last thought Paul had before going under was of Emma Perkins, and a long, sickly sweet note held over her name like a promise. Or a threat.

_Charlotte,_

_Is it shitty if I say I’m not really sure what to write to you? I hope not. It’s not_ personal, it's _just, well, we were never really_ close. _Honest to god I can’t remember a time we just hung out one on one, no Bill or Ted. Maybe that time Ted made himself sick on tequila and Bill had to drive him home early? We probably stayed put at least a few minutes, at least long enough to finish our drinks._

 _If we’re putting all our cards on the table- and I mean, why not, right? You’re dead, ~~and I probably will be soon, too~~ \- I never really figured out how to talk to you. Your life, it is- was- just kinda… messy. It wasn’t your fault, I mean, you didn’t sign up for a cheating scumbag husband. You kinda _did _sign up for screwing Ted, though, and that… that’s weird to me, okay? The idea that the shit that comes out of that guy’s mouth could work on_ anyone _is confusing as hell. I know I ~~don’t~~ didn’t know him very well, maybe he was a complete gentleman when you guys were alone, but I can’t really picture that. Guess it was slim pickings in our office. I mean, Bill’s been single a while, but I he’s more of a steady guy. Honest. I don’t think he could wrap his head round going behind anyone’s back, not even your asshole husband. Guess a different asshole was kinda what you needed. But _Ted? _Wow. I hope he was at least good in the sack… Was he? Don’t answer that ~~you can’t answer that~~ , I don’t wanna know._

 _I am sorry, though. That I didn’t ask what was up more. I didn’t know how to talk to you but I probably should have_ tried. _It wasn’t enough that I kind of wound up accidentally listening in when you and Sam argued on the phone right next to my desk, I should have checked in on you when you hung up._ _I don’t know, maybe if you had more people to talk to, things would’ve been different. Maybe you wouldn’t have needed all the booze and cigarettes and… Teds. I think I get it a little more now. You felt trapped, and you had to work with what you had. I should have noticed. I should have cared._

_I think there’s a lot of stuff I should’ve cared about when I had the chance._

Whatever relief he felt on first seeing the white walls, it was long gone by week three of his enforced bed rest.

Paul put down his pen and flexed his wrist. They’d taken off the straps on his arms now, at least. He was still trapped, but being able to scratch his own nose was a plus. And just the other day the counsellor, the one with the cheerful English northern accent and the sunny smile who’d been dropping in sometimes, she brought him the notebook.

_“I thought it might be helpful for you to write down what you’re thinking; thoughts, feelings, bits and bobs like that. I’m sure there’s a lot more than what we cover in our sessions.”_

_“I- I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”_

_“Why not?”_

Paul closed his eyes, breathing in through his nose. Even now, thinking about that plan at a distance, words were clamouring to be heard in the back of his mind. Rhyming words, fighting to escape through his mouth or at least his pen.

_“...Alright. Perhaps you could write something else, then?”_

_“Like what?”_

_“Perhaps you could write_ to _someone.”_

_“I don’t exactly have anyone left to send letters to.”_

_“Well. Never said you had to send them, did I?”_

He opened his eyes, gazing vacantly at the page half full on his lap. Charlotte’s name was barely legible. It got a little easier to read further down the page, but turned out writing was a thing you sorta had to relearn after being possessed, blown up and mildly comatose. Maybe Charlotte was a bad choice to start with; a few stupid lines down and he was already drawing a blank.

In a weird way, though, that’s kinda why he picked her. Less to cover, less emotional investment. Less chance he was gonna burst into tears and/or song halfway through.

Except that kinda implied that he didn’t care that she was dead, and that was fucked up. And not true, at all. Of course he cared- how could he not care? They weren’t _close_ but god, he’d worked at a desk next to that woman for years. That wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t exactly _something_ either, but she was a presence in his life. She had a space in it, even if they didn’t talk sometimes, even if he never really _got_ her. She was a real person, who he knew, who he bought coffee for and worked alongside, who’s calls he always got stuck listening to because she made them right under his nose. She mattered. He _cared._

He had to...

_Ted,_

_Is it bad that this letter feels easier to write than Charlotte’s? I’m not sure I like what that says about me, that I find you easier to talk to than her. I mean, I don’t think I ever really understood you either, but there was always something straightforward about you. I guess I could figure you out, even when I couldn’t relate to you. You were always just… you were_ Ted. _You made loud sex jokes and insulted me and problematically objectified baristas, and you never tried to be anything other than what you ~~are~~ were._

 _Then again, I guess I never really tried to get to know you either. Starting to realise I was kinda shitty at that. For all I know you were a gentleman and a scholar under all that performative sleazeball crap. I doubt it, ~~since you threw me and Emma under the bus at the first chance to save your own skin~~ but I guess I’ll never know, now. Maybe that’s a good thing. If it turned out you really _were _as shallow and shitty as you pretended to be, working together probably would have got a whole lot more awkward. Guess when I didn’t know you too well it was easy to just… switch it off. Pretend it didn’t matter that you said shitty things._

_I guess it didn’t, in the long run._

The silence was tense, smothering. It settled on Paul’s chest like a physical weight.

But he knew that it was better than the alternative. Ever since that night a few weeks ago, when a nurse brought him a radio so he could listen to music. It was only on for a minute but he could still feel it, the vibrations of the music in his soul. The phantom ache in his throat of belting out words to a song he shouldn’t have known, desperate to become one with it, to connect to… to _something_ he didn’t want to think about. Something huge and unknowable, pulsating with the rhythm of the universe and reaching out to him with blue, bloody tendrils.

Apparently in his state, it wasn’t just musical theatre numbers that made him sick. A little Queen did the job just fine.

Paul closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath that felt too shallow. The straps across his torso barred him in placed, the silence echoed in his chest cavity. He felt trapped. He felt hollow. He felt… _haunted._ Like an empty, dusty old house, creaking in the wind. A ramshackle old death trap, scaring the kids and waiting to be torn down. Except there were no adventurous trick or treaters to scare, no council to sign off on his demolition; it was just him, and this bed, and the people watching him from behind one-way glass to see what made him tick. No screams. No creaking. No music- probably ever again.

His heart drummed a rapid pitter-patter against his chest, anxiously thrumming with anticipation. It didn’t care that there was nothing to anticipate, that’d he’d be staying silently in his bed all night and then the next day and the next night and on and on until he turned a corner, one way or the other. That, at least, was familiar- anxiety was familiar. He’d gone through bad times and good times in life, years where he felt fine ninety nine percent of the time and months where he felt like he barely took a breath, but he knew it. He understood it, and he could handle it.

But that was before he had something inside him; the coiling, clawing new piece burrowing into his heart, telling him the best way to get through this would be to open his mouth and _let it out._

Paul was going through the good times and bad times again, faster than ever- a bad day, a good hour, and good-bad afternoon switching by the minute. When things were good, he could hold it in. He could lock that new, dark impulse away and breathe through his panic like he learned to so long ago, like nothing had changed. And when things were bad, well… when things were bad there wasn’t much else to do but lay still, tears running down his face as his lips moved without his permission. Shaking voice, shallow lungs, shaping lyrics to songs he was never aware of making up.

Tonight was not a good night.

_Bill,_

_This one, uh. Yeah, this one’s hard. Lot to cover, right? I could write pages and pages and I still wouldn’t get to everything I could say to you. All those years, lotta memories._

_I guess if we’re talking about regrets- and I seem to be, so far- I regret not telling you how great it was, working with you. Or next to you, at least. Guess I never realised how lucky I was, all those times you sent your files to my printer or airdropped me those Facebook mom memes. But I was lucky- how many people get to keep working with their best buddies from college? Even though we kinda drifted apart for a few years, before we met up again at CCRP, when we got talking again it felt just like old times. It was always easy with you, Bill._

_...Screw it, ~~you can’t read this anyway~~ \- you know I had kind of a crush on you, right? I mean, I know I’m not subtle. But maybe you were too stuck on Kate to notice. It’s fine. I mean, it was hard for a while but I got over it. Being your friend was too important to screw up for some dumb crush- and you were older than me anyway, and a TA, it would have… not worked, for several reasons. I’m glad it didn’t get in the way. I don’t wanna think about missing all those years after college. Working with you, hanging with you (and Ted and Charlotte, I guess, but fuck ‘em), meeting your awesome daughter. Crush or no crush, you’re my best friend. I couldn’t imagine not having that._

_Guess I don’t have to imagine it, anymore..._

The wheelchair wasn’t so bad. Relying on someone else to push it kinda sucked.

Not that he was complaining. It wasn’t enough to dampen his relief in the slightest. First time they told him he could leave his hospital room he nearly cried- even came damn close to singing. No amount of writing emotionally tricky letters could distract a guy from the same four walls for very long. The fact that he’d need to be chaperoned at all times didn’t make him any less eager to just fucking escape his sterile cell for a few hours a day.

It was a little bit of a bummer when they told him _why_ he was cleared, though. Turned out he wasn’t a threat that needed his legs restrained to an immovable bed, because his legs didn’t actually _work_ anymore. They figured he’d have a hard time puking in anyone’s mouth if he couldn’t get higher than the average nurse’s waist level- although they fitted his chair with some kinda reinforced seatbelt, just in case.

Paul stared intently at his own _knees,_ of all things. Crazy. Here he was, finally out of that room, finally surrounded by something _different_ even if it was just some fucking corridors, and all he could stare at were the legs he’d had stuck out in front of him for… for _however_ long he’d been here. Go figure. But they were right there, and according to the doc, there was at least a fifty percent chance they’d never move again.

Jeez. Before all this shit went down he’d never even _broken a bone_ before. And what’s the first one he ever breaks? The one really big, _really_ important one in his back that happens to carry a bunch of nerves that he really needs. And all because he had to try and save the world with nothing but desperation and a fucking _grenade._ Of course.

_“But it… it’ll heal, right? I mean, you said the spores are trying to fix me…”_

_“Maybe, if they were working at full capacity. But under the circumstances, Mr. Matthews, we really can’t know for sure at this stage that they’ll manage that much.”_

Paul’s eyes drifted sideways, to his hand clenched on the armrest. To the watch. Which, somehow, still worked; somehow it survived the explosion better than he did, ticking away slightly out of time with the squeaky click of the wheels on his chair. He might even owe what was left of his life to it. Somehow, the old thing was stopping his full apotheosis.

And his full recovery.

What would happen if he just took it off, he wondered. Would the spores take him, or were they too weak, now? Would they kill him? Cure him? Would he get his body back the way it used to be- and would it even belong to him anymore? Would it be worth it?

Mouth dry, Paul lay his hand on top of the watch. And he held it there.

Could be worse. At least he wasn’t gonna start dancing on dead legs.

_Alice,_

_I… I hate that I have to write this. I hate that you can’t read it._

_You remember when we met? No, of course you don’t, you were like four or something, right. I remember it like it just happened. I hadn’t seen Bill in five years, after I left college and he stayed on for work we kinda drifted apart, then I turned up at my new job and who did I see in the parking lot? Only my ~~crush~~ ~~TA~~ best friend from college getting out of a car, kissing the lady driving it goodbye. Leaning into the backseat to do the same to the tiniest, giggliest little kid I’ve ever seen. You were so _small.

_And then I got to know you, got to babysit you and take you to movies. I didn’t even care that you wanted to watch Disney musicals all the time. Don’t tell anybody ~~you can’t tell anybody~~ but, I even started to kinda like them. I got to watch you grow up into such a smart, sweet kid and just the most amazing person. Just like your old man. I could see what an amazing woman you were turning into but even then… you were always that little giggly kid, somewhere in my mind._

_God… you were just a kid..._

When he finally plucked up the courage to ask how long he’d been there, he found out he’d lost half a year to this place. To white walls and wheelchairs and endless _fucking_ letters.

Four days later, they told him the virus was neutralised.

He could hardly believe it. He had to resist the urge to laugh as the doctor patiently walked him through it, it felt… crazy. It felt like a prank.

The infection was no longer spreading, she said. The active spores had died off, his last three blood tests came back non-toxic. He was, for the most part safe; for others, _from_ himself.

He also wasn’t entirely _human_ anymore, so… there’s that.

They weren’t entirely sure of the extent of the changes yet. It was a different kind of waiting game, now, recording abnormalities, tracking them, seeing how many stayed or faded with time. Would his core temperature ever rise to match an average human’s again? Would his fragmented eyes ever mend?

Would the little voice in his head that wanted to sing any time he got a surge of emotion ever _shut the fuck up?_

It was too soon to tell, they said. Something told him they’d be saying the same a month, a year, a _decade_ from now. He was something _new,_ now. Something they had no data for. All of them were just making it up as they went along, trying to be reassuring about it.

They told him he might return to (mostly) normal one day. He was too polite and defeated to say that sounded like bull.

They told him he could take the watch off, now, too.

He didn’t.

_General McNamara,_

_Well. I sure hope all that love and ‘tenacity of the human soul’ stuff is helping you out right now, man._

_It’s weird, y’know. I met you once, total, ~~when you were still you~~. You spared me, and scared me and trashed my fucking iPhone. But somehow, you wound up being one of the most important people I ever met. I bet you didn’t realise when you gave me that watch, but… you saved my life. Seriously. Without that watch I’d be a pod person! Or dead, or _both. _If you hadn’t given it to me, I’d be done for._

_If you hadn’t given it to me… maybe you’d still be alive._

_I think I get it now. I’ve spent all this time in here moping, thinking I’d be better off dead. I need to get over that, somehow. I need to appreciate this life ‘cause it’s not just mine, it’s_ yours. _It’s a gift, and I need to try not to waste it ~~like I wasted my first one.~~_

 ~~~~ _I’ll see you for that coffee one day, General. Hopefully a long,_ long _time from now. Wherever you are now, I hope there’s damn good coffee._

_And no. Fucking. Musicals._

He got used to the wheelchair way faster than his doctors thought he would. And despite the way it made his underused arms ache, pushing it himself was _way_ better than the constant escorting. He guessed he had all the physiotherapy to thank for his new mobility- that and, maybe, just maybe, a little bit of blue shit.

The doctors were right about him not being contagious anymore- there wasn’t a drop of toxin in him. But somehow the spores weren’t done with him yet. Despite the radium, despite time and neglect, the benign traces now grafted to his DNA were working overtime. After just a week of physio he was at the two month benchmark of muscle rehabilitation. Even his severed nerves hadn’t thrown in the towel yet- if he tried, _really_ tried, with the help of a zimmer frame he could stagger about a couple yards.

He probably wasn’t trying as much as he should.

Okay, yeah, he’d admit it. Walking again freaked him out a little. A lot. It wasn’t the same as when he used to walk, with his old legs, it felt… _fake._ Somehow he could feel the _other_ in it, the influence of the parasite sludge in his nerves. If he owed the miraculous recovery to that blue shit, how could he ever walk again without worrying about his control slipping? If his legs suddenly started tap dancing, what then? No, he’d rather skip it. Let the nerves die, let the muscles atrophy.

His doctors weren’t happy with that answer, at all, but he haggled them down from five physio sessions a week to three, so he was counting that as a victory.

Upper body physio, now _that_ he was down for. Now that he could move around himself without someone pushing his chair, he barely went back to his room at all. He (reluctantly) stayed there overnight, and went along with his tests and therapy, but whenever he wasn’t being corralled by doctors and nurses and soldiers he was off on his own. Exploring a little, for a while, until he realised the outer doors were heavily guarded, and the lower level was signposted with about a thousand warnings. One time he saw someone come out of there in a biohazard suit, and he wheeled off fast as lightning in the opposite direction. He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know.

When he’d seen as much as he could see- and as much as he figured he could stomach- he fell into favourite routes. He liked the hallway in the east wing, which was about the only place that got some honest to god sunlight through its tall- and probably bulletproof- windows. And he liked the lobby around the nurses’ station, where some dedicated soul was making an effort to keep the houseplants alive.

And sometimes, when one of those nurses lent him a dollar, he’d camp out by the ancient coffee machine on the second floor, drinking the second worst coffee he’d ever tasted and staring into the space. Wishing it was shittier.

_Emma,_

_Okay. I’ve held off on writing this letter long enough. It’s time. Shit._

_You know, this has been a shitty, shitty year. This year I lost my home, I lost my friends, and I turned into an actual zombie. Or at least half of one. And to top it all off, I_ finally _talked to you- and less than twenty four hours later, I lost you, too._

 _Emma… god, I spent so long hanging back. I was so scared that if I got to know you,_ really _got to know you, you’d, I dunno, think I was lame or creepy. Or maybe_ you _wouldn’t be the person I imagined, but… well, I guess you weren’t. You were better. You were funny, and smart and_ badass. _And for some reason, you liked me, too. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Emma, of all the people I could’ve faced the apocalypse with, I’m glad I got to face it with you._

 _I mean, it’s not the first date_ I _would have picked for us, but…_

 _I’m sorry I was a coward. If I’d spoken up sooner, talked to you_ before _the world was ending…_ god, _I wasted so much time. Time I could’ve spent just hanging with you, getting to know who you really ~~are~~ were. I would’ve liked that, and I think… maybe you would have, too. I mean, we got along, right? Made a good team…_

_I think I’ve been waiting, Em. Ever since Colonel Schaeffer got all cagey with me about whether you survived I’ve just been waiting for someone to pull you out of a magic hat, but maybe… maybe you’re just gone. And maybe I have to learn to be okay with that. Somehow._

_You’re smart, Emma, help me out; how the hell do I let you go?_

“Well- you’ve been busy!”

Paul fidgeted, watching Shirley the counsellor flick through the pages of his nearly full notebook, barely skimming the letters inside- the shortest barely filled a page each, the longest rambled on for six sheets or more. He guessed they were pretty much the only paper trail left to his old life. “Yeah, well. I’ve had a lot of time on my hands.”

“Was it helpful?”

Paul nodded, slowly. “I… yeah. I think so.”

She smiled, neatly snapping the book shut. “Good.”

“So, uh. What now? Do we burn them or something?”

“Something tells me Doctor Maheswaran wouldn’t like it if we lit a fire in your room. But yes, we can get rid of them, if that’s what you want to do.”

“Oh. I kinda assumed that was the whole point of this.”

“The point was to be what you needed it to be,” she said patiently, jotting down some notes in her own book. “Seen all sorts of approaches. For some people, the act of writing and burning is the closure they need to move forward. For others, the letters may be a tad more useful kept aside, to read again later on. They can be a reminder, or a goodbye. It’s up to you.”

“Oh.”

She smiled kindly, holding the book out to him. “You don’t have to decide what to do with them _now,_ dear. Think on it a while, if it helps. I can just leave these with you for now and-”

“Actually, uh, could- could you take them?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I… I think I’m done with them, sorry. You can get rid of them, or file them or whatever, I just… yeah.”

“Well. If that’s what you want, Paul.”

Paul wasn’t sure _want_ was the right word. He didn’t want to ditch the letters, any more than he _wanted_ to write them in the first place. But maybe creepy possessed Mr. Davidson was right; he didn’t know what he wanted. Never had.

But he thought he knew what he _needed,_ now.

He watched her slip the notebook into her file, mentally saying his goodbyes. He watched her smile softly as she told him to call if he needed her, even now their sessions were over. He smiled in return as she handed him a business card with her number and a dozen crisis lines, as well as a cheerful scribble from her in the corner with a smiley face.

And then she walked out the door, taking his letters with her, and he let her go.

He let them all go.

Ten months. Since he’d been admitted- or had his remains poured into a hospital bed, whatever- ten months had passed him by. Babies had gone from conception to birth in the time that he’d been hidden away, now _that_ was a weird feeling. Whole lives had begun while his had been put on hold.

Until now.

Paul stared at the envelope in his hands uncomprehendingly. It was his new life, all neatly filed in a nondescript A4 packet. It looked exactly like the packets they used to pass between departments at CCRP- but instead of pages of figures for him to puzzle out, this contained the sum total of his life moving forward.

 _Ben Bridges._ He didn’t get to pick the name, but he didn’t mind it too much. It was alliterative. Kinda reminded him of the Marvel comics he used to read at his buddy Jake’s house in eighth grade. He kinda lucked out on the name, but it was still gonna take getting used to.

He’d flicked through the envelope a couple times. New I.D, birth certificate, details for a new bank account with some savings, as well as a couple hundred in cash. Someone even signed Ben Bridges up for a Costa coffee loyalty card. He’d never had coffee there in his life, but he guessed he was gonna need a new go-to. Throw in a duffel bag of clothes from Goodwill and bam, a whole new person.

The papers he kept coming back to were the fake medical records. Full of details about his disabilities, his ‘skin condition’, his aggressive and rare strain of cataracts, a thousand fancy names to explain away all his new _oddities,_ as well as a specialist number to call if he needed urgent medical attention. For obvious reasons, they didn’t want just any doctor giving him blood tests. He guessed he wasn’t done with this place just yet. Probably wouldn’t be until he was dead in the ground, whenever _that_ turned out to be.

“You ready, son?”

Paul looked up, and offered Colonel Schaeffer an uncertain smile. “I guess.”

She stood behind his wheelchair and clapped him on the shoulder. “Bet you can’t wait to see the outdoors again. Boy, I’d be climbing the walls by now. You’ve got the patience of a damn saint, Ben.”

Ben, _Ben._ Yeah. _That_ was gonna take some getting used to. “So. How’d you guys pick the name?”

She raised her eyebrow. “Don’t know what you mean. You’d have to ask momma Bridges.”

“Right, yeah- _Eleanor.”_ The craziest thing about having a new identity was all the fake people that came with it. A mom, a deadbeat dad, even a cousin or two, all conveniently estranged. Just empty profiles, easy alibis, papering over the cracks in his new identity.

Papering over Paul Matthews.

Maybe it was for the best. What did that guy ever have going for him?

“Where… where do I go now?” he asked, voice wavering. “What do I _do?”_

“World’s your oyster, Ben. But I get it; need a lil’ time to figure out life on the outside, right?”

“I guess…”

“Well, it’s your lucky day. We’ve found you a place to stay while you figure it out, won’t cost you a cent.”

“What, like a motel, or…?”

“More like a safe house.” She looked down at him and smiled kindly. “You’ll be safe there, Ben. For as long as you need. Maybe forever.”

“I’m, uh,” he laughed nervously. “Not sure hiding in a house alone for the rest of my life is what my therapist had in mind.” Although it would be way, _way_ too easy.

“Who said anything about being alone?”

Paul blinked up at her. “You mean I have, like… a roommate?”

“More of a landlady. Hopefully a friend.” She winked. “Maybe something more.”

Before he could even begin to unpack that confusing statement, Schaeffer’s earpiece bleeped quietly. She listened intently for a second, a smile spreading across her face. “Well, speak of the devil. Looks like your new best friend’s here to pick you up. Got everything, Mister Bridges?”

Paul looked down at the bag and the envelope that represented literally everything he had in the world. “Yeah.”

“Well, looks like you’re all set.” She signalled the soldiers at the entrance, one of them lowered his gun and held the door for Paul. “She just pulled up outside. You can’t miss her- don’t worry, Ben. I have a feeling you and Kelly will get along just fine.”

Taking a step out to the side and turning sharply to face him, Schaeffer saluted with a wink. “Good luck, Ben.”

Paul awkwardly returned the gesture- the salute, not the wink. “Thanks, Colonel.”

He’d popped the brakes on his chair and wheeled himself a foot closer to the door before Schaeffer stopped him again with a tap on the shoulder.

“Oh, and Ben?” She smiled sadly, and patted his wrist. McNamara’s watch ticked on under her hand. “Take care of that old thing.”

Paul met her gaze, and nodded stoically. “I will.”

She returned the nod and stepped aside, and Paul rolled on past her. He didn’t look back, eyes forward and face to the future as the soldier ahead ushered him into the world.

 _God…_ he’d forgotten what the sun felt like.

He knew someone was waiting for him, but for a moment he didn’t care. He just paused by the door and tilted his face to the light, sighing at the deep, natural warmth on his skin. He must have looked like a ghost; it felt like his skin had never seen the sun.

Wherever he was going now, he hoped there was sun.

Hey, look at that. He wanted something.

Taking a deep breath, he carefully wheeled himself down the ramp and towards the curb, squinting in the unfamiliar light. He could see the car, now, a nondescript green Sedan. He saw the outline of someone in the driver’s seat, someone with close-cropped hair, staring right at him. Someone…

Someone familiar.

He stopped. Blinked. Clenched his hands on the wheels of his chair.

The car door opened, closed, and the driver walked towards him. With every step they became more distinct in the dazzling sunlight. Fair skin, now somewhat tanned. Brown hair, surprisingly short. Eyes as brown and warm and sharp as black coffee.

When she stopped in front of him, when she smiled down at him, it all came crashing down on him.

“Hey, Paul,” she said softly.

For once he didn’t even want to sing. Not even the foreign voice in his chest could avoid being tongue-tied.

“Nice to see you, too,” she said with a snort. “Long time. C’mon, hand me that thing.”

She took his duffel from his unresisting hands and slung it over her shoulder. He just stared.

She met it with a wry smile- but her eyes, _god,_ her _eyes…_ “Hey, uh. Don’t take this the wrong way, man, but… you look like shit.”

He laughed, short and breathless. Fuck, _fuck,_ it was good to hear her voice again. He never thought he’d… he thought she was…

“Oh! Oh, uh, okay.”

Her voice was a little muffled, now, with his ear pressed to her stomach. He didn’t even remember reaching out to her- one second he was just sitting there still as a statue, the next he had his arms wrapped around her waist and he was hanging on for dear life. He must have felt like a human bear trap. Any moment she was gonna step back and shake him off, maybe chew him out for being pushy, and she’d be totally entitled to.

But her arms settled tentatively around his neck, her fingers slid through his hair. She held him close, like she’d been longing for this every bit as much as he had, and he couldn’t help melting into her, her name escaping his lungs on a melodic sigh he felt down to his soul.

_“Emma…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <333 If you're enjoying it so far, comments and reblogs are life! I'll try my best to get chapter two out before too long ^^
> 
> Come chat Paulkins with me on tumble @dont-offend-the-bees!
> 
> EDIT 27/05/20: fixed a couple formatting/punctuation mistakes while re-reading for chapter 2 continuity! C2 coming soon ^^


	2. Moving Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who finally finished this thing!!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy- it's still sad/angsty in parts but this is defo the happier chapter, with lots of Paulkins content yay! Don't think there's any triggers/squicks in this chapter that weren't in the first, although I should do the Responsible Adult 'be careful with drugs, kids!' disclaimer; even if you happen to own your own weed farm, everything in moderation!
> 
> Anyway, this took me a long time to get right (and I think/hope I've got it right), but I think it was important to me that I get it finished round about now. Maybe it has s o m e t h i n g to do with the uh, general state of the world rn, but I find a lot of hope and catharsis in the idea of just escaping to the countryside, leaving the apocalypse behind and building a new, quiet life on a little farm with my best friend/love interest and a load of weed and chickens. Idk something about that reaaaally appeals to me, weird right?
> 
> Song lyric snippets are either modified Starkid ones, or ABBA- and the ABBA songs are Mamma Mia!, Dancing Queen and Name of the Game respectively, none of that good shit is mine, nor are the characters etc, you know the drill. And this chapter's random other fandom character cameo is a nod to Schitt's Creek for no real reason.
> 
> Enjoy <333

_“Emma…”_

The word came out before he could stop it, before he could even _think-_ and the spores took full advantage. His voice rang out soft, sweet, a little breathy but clear as a bell and no less musical.

He felt his chest seize with panic, terror setting in faster than the relief of before, strangling the note before it could fade naturally into the air. Reflexively, his arms locked tight around what they were holding- and he fought, viciously, to return control and feeling to them because his first act with Emma back in his life was _not_ going to be to pin her to him like a singing fly trap. He could already feel her spine stiffening, the hand in his hair bunching tight enough to tug. Any second now she’d pull away, and if she was trapped when she tried there would be yelling or screaming or punching and the soldiers keeping watch a few feet away would spring to action and ‘neutralise’ him- or, even worse, he could catch a glimpse of Emma’s expression and see first hand the fear and disgust on her face. He knew already that he’d never be able to shed that memory. If she looked at him and saw a monster he’d carry that to the grave.

Closing his eyes, forcing down the urge to hyperventilate in favour of taking a deep, slow, laboured breath, Paul wrestled with himself until he felt his arms go slack, hanging onto Emma’s waist by drape alone. It wasn’t as good as letting go entirely, but at least now she could step back and he’d just harmlessly fall off. Less chance of scaring her, any more than he already had. He kept his eyes- and more importantly his mouth- shut, waiting for her to make her next move. He wouldn’t hold it against her, honestly, if she backed off, got back in her car, and drove away without him. It would break his fucking heart, but at least he knew she was alive, now. No matter what happened to him now, at least he’d know Emma Perkins was alive and okay in the world, somewhere.

The hand pulling his hair loosened. And rather than retreat immediately, it even lingered a second to smooth down the strands, almost apologetically. When it lifted completely, when Emma’s body shifted, Paul let her step out of his arms without a struggle, hands dropping to his knees. He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t think he _could._

“Paul? Can you look at me?”

Okay, he took it back- the thing he _couldn’t_ do was refuse her. He opened his eyes, the bright sunlight stinging his retinas, and cautiously angled his head to look up at her. She didn’t _sound_ mad. A little strained, maybe, but…

“Huh, weird,” she said quietly, crossing her arms. “Never looked at you from this angle. How’s the weather down there?”

He snorted, chest loosening. “You’re- I don’t think you’re supposed to make fun of people in wheelchairs.”

She tapped her fingers on her arm, a small, nervous smile tugging at her lips. “What, uh. What are the rules for making fun of your friends? Nicely. Y’know, when you’ve missed them and shit.”

Paul smiled. For the first time, genuinely, in ten long months. “Anything goes.”

The lightness of the moment carried them a little while. While Paul was hauling himself into the passenger side of Emma’s car, while she was folding his wheelchair into the trunk. He was practically giddy with the relief of knowing she wasn’t disgusted with him, at least not openly, of knowing he hadn’t immediately blown his chance to go with her.

The first ten minutes of the drive were a different matter. Almost enough to make Paul dread the hours to come. When awkward silence took over, the reality of the situation weighing down on them both, it was hard to picture anything else taking its place. Just minutes before, Paul had thought she was dead. And Emma had probably thought… what had she been thinking? Did she even know who she was supposed to be picking up? She must have, she didn’t seem surprised. But did she expect him to be just like he was, before? Did she expect the chair, or the scars, or the eyes? Did she expect the _singing?_ That would have been a good time to ask all those questions, but Paul couldn’t muster the courage to break the silence stretching out in front of them. What do you say, when there's no more buffer?

Then Emma made a snide remark about a passing driver in a four by four, Paul laughed, and from that moment on the seal was broken.

“So. New haircut.”

“Yeah. Kinda had a Britney moment, ‘bout a month back- clipped first, asked questions later.”

“I like it.”

“Liar.”

“I do!”

“Well, next time I'm paying someone to do it- mental breakdowns and clippers are a _baaaad_ mix.”

They'd been bouncing between similar topics for what felt like minutes, but could have been hours. Once they started talking, it would have felt weird to stop. It felt like a lifetime had passed since they last spoke, when Paul was covered in grenades and Emma had a pipe through her leg. Occasionally Paul saw her reach down and absentmindedly scratch at her thigh. He'd ask her about it sometime- but so far she'd been careful _not_ to ask him about his own very visible scars, he figured he should return the favour.

“Well, maybe you could give me a hand,” Paul smiled, running a hand through his hair. It didn't grown so fast anymore, but it was longer than he was used to. “I need to get some of this off before I, I dunno, morph into the missing fifth Beatle.”

Emma snorted. “Seriously? You'd trust me with clippers?”

“Trust you with anything.”

Too much? Maybe. But she looked at him out the corner of her eye and smiled softly, so he couldn't feel too awkward. “Dork.”

Affection coloured her voice, and bubbled up in his own chest in response.

_Emmaaaaaaaaaaa..._

It wasn't the only thing bubbling up.

Paling, Paul sank back into his seat, hunching up against the familiar lightness of his tongue and the feeling it could start forming rhymes without his conscious consent at any moment. He had a lungful of air and it was twisting, tangling into a melody and fighting to escape, and his stomach churned with the effort of keeping it at bay. He’d already slipped up in front of Emma once, he was _not_ gonna do it again. He was lucky she took it so well the first time.

He was just making peace with the fact that Emma was about to see him barf his guts up out the car window when her voice penetrated the mounting static in his ears.

“It's okay, Paul.”

Paul turned his head to look at her, with difficulty- even the minor movement made his stomach turn. “What?”

She had her eyes on the road, her fingers clamped white-knuckled on the wheel, but she kept her voice calm and level. Like she was trying hard not to spook him. “Schaeffer told me, Paul. I know you can’t help it. It’s okay. If you’ve gotta…” She gulped. _“Y’know._ Just do it. It’s okay.”

He was shaking his head before she’d finished her sentence. “I’m good.”

_“Paul.”_

“I am!”

“Paul, you’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

She laughed humourlessly. “That’s _real_ comforting. I’m serious, Paul, don’t hold it in, if it hurts- that’s not how we’re gonna do things, okay?”

He fell a little more in love with her right that second. But he also saw the tension in her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes, and made a decision. “Okay. But… not right now.”

_“Paul-”_

“It’s _fine,_ Em, really. I won’t do this every time.” He tried to give her a reassuring smile. “I promise.”

Emma sighed, but she didn’t fight him on it again. And to be honest, the tension in the car had kinda dampened the need to sing, anyway. Paul swallowed down the rest of it and put it away to deal with later- if he _had_ to sing in front of Emma again, he’d rather do it when she wasn’t operating heavy machinery. For now he just settled back into the freshly fallen silence, quietly mourning the loss of the easy conversation they’d had going, wondering which of them would break the silence this time.

Neither of them, as it turned out. In the end, it was ABBA who did that for them.

Paul looked at the crackly car speakers in surprise, watching Emma’s hand turn the volume dial down to an unobtrusive background level as _Mamma Mia!_ rounded out its first verse.

“This okay?” Emma asked quietly, hand hovering over the dial even after she’d settled on a volume, ready to mute at a moment’s notice.

Paul, throat dry, nodded. He could feel the answering call inside him, rearing up to complete the lyrics as they crackled into the quiet space, but it didn’t feel so all-encompassing with the volume low and Emma’s presence at his side. Also, winning out over both fear and a compulsion to sing, was pure confusion. “Uh. Since when do you…?”

She shrugged. “I dunno, man, it’s ABBA. I mean, c’mon. These songs are _jams.”_

He exhaled out of his nose. “Yeah, I guess. I, uh… I don’t really listen to music anymore.”

“Want me to turn it off?”

“It’s okay.”

“Like, _really_ okay, or phony bullshit okay?”

He bit back a smile. “Really okay.”

Emma hummed, drumming on the wheel. “I didn’t listen to music either, for a while, after… everything. For a few months I only watched TV on mute.”

Surprised, Paul looked at her fingers fearlessly tapping to the beat. “Really?”

 _“Yeah,_ are you _kidding-_ I was jumpy as _fuck._ Still am, I guess, if I get caught off guard, but… y’know what? I used to fucking _love_ music, like, playlist for _everything,_ and I’ll be fucking _pissed_ of I let those alien _fuckwads_ take that away from me, too.”

Determined, stubborn anger was rolling off her in waves. Looking at her was like staring at the sun- and just like he was upon seeing the _actual_ sun for the first time in months, Paul was literally stunned silent.

She exhaled and glanced at him, tension bleeding out of her bit by bit. “Yikes. Sorry for going off on you, there.”

“Don’t be,” he said quickly, before shrugging and trying to come across a little more chill. “It’s… it’s good. I, uh, I like how passionate you get about stuff.”

 _“Passionate,_ huh,” she snorted. “Never been called _that_ before.”

“Well… maybe you just never found the right thing to be passionate about.”

Emma wrinkled her nose. “And… that thing is _ABBA?”_

“Maybe. It happens.” He shrugged again. “I heard some asshole made a musical of it.”

They shared a look. Paul, somehow, kept a straight face.

Until Emma laughed. How was he supposed to be immune to _that?_

“Shit,” she chuckled, shaking her head slightly with her lips twisted in an unsuppressable smirk. “I missed you, Paul.”

His heart thrummed with the beat of the song. “I missed you, too.” _More than you can know._

Silence fell in the car again, more comfortable this time and gently overlaid by quiet Swedish pop. And, after a couple minutes, Emma’s matching humming, the occasional coherent lyric poking out almost tentatively.

_“Mmm, mm, just how much I missed ya…”_

With her eyes on the road he could watch all he wanted. Watch her head bop slightly to the beat, her fingers drum idly on the wheel. She wasn’t the same woman he’d helplessly crushed on in their past life, and not just because of the haircut. Time and pain had weathered her further, building on that old sadness leftover from her sister, her family, all that time spent clinging on with her fingertips and trying to get her life back on track.

He guessed she had a new life now. They both did. And somehow, against all odds, they were gonna share them, at least for a little while.

Kind of a hard thing not to feel… _bubbly_ about.

Paul listened to the mingling of Emma’s gentle hums with the music, felt the answering call inside him, something deep down pleading his lungs to draw a breath.

_It’s okay, Paul._

He closed his eyes, swallowed hard around the knot of coalescing words in his mouth. Emma glanced at him, and didn’t say a word.

_It’s okay._

_Emma says it’s okay._

_You believe Emma._

_It’s okay._

_Let it out._

_“...Blueeeee since the day we parted…”_

His voice felt foreign to him, that strange technical sureness granted to him by the virus carrying a high note he never would have thought to attempt alone. But it was far from perfect, far from robotic; he could hear as well as feel the tremble and crack, his own careful restraint breaking the facade. He wasn’t untethered, not now, not yet; above the ghost of the hive there was just him, just Paul, and a mouth unused to talking and a heart unused to hoping.

He found more reassurance in that tiny vocal crack than he had in six plus months of therapy.

Another glance from Emma, and a tiny, cautious smile to match. She was on her guard, a little, but there was no judgment. No resentment. And more importantly, an uptick in volume and a lack of wobble as she carried on for him. _“Why, why, did I ever let you go?”_

Paul grinned, and the music blossomed; and this time, he let it. It was scary, and exhilarating, and probably something he’d be harbouring doubts and regrets about for days or weeks afterwards, but for a moment he didn’t care. For a moment it was just his voice, guided by _her_ voice, the two of them floating along to the comfy song in imperfect chorus, more enthusiasm than technical skill. Just a couple people, singing a song they liked, not caring how it sounded.

_“Mamma mia! Now I really know- why, why, I could never let you go!”_

Singing for themselves. Like real people do.

“-Havin' the time of your life!"

Paul's complementary _'ooooooooh'_ broke around giggles, and the last phrase of the song didn't do much better, even with Emma's voice chiming in. As the music went on and their throats got hoarse the singing became so _bad_ , so enthusiastically tuneless it even drowned out the loud crunch of gravel under tyres as Emma turned the car up a long, rough drive that Paul wouldn't have even spotted nestled in the tall, swaying crops wrapped around it. As the song faded out the crunching became more audible, as did the whisper of leaves brushing the sides of the car before they broke out of the narrow track into a wider dirt drive. He was still catching his breath when Emma, giggling a little breathlessly, hit the brakes and gently lurched to a stop, hands shaking with laughter on the wheel.

"Y'know," she snorted, cutting the radio along with the engine. "For a guy who doesn't like musicals, you're a pretty solid singer."

"Well. Can't take all the credit." He fidgeted, wondering if he should get out of the car, but so far she hadn't made a move to. Actually, she hadn't moved at all, not even to take her hands off the wheel. She was just sitting, looking, eyes to the windshield and biting her lip, not even glancing in Paul's direction.

He tried not to panic. "Hey... you okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry, just- kinda weird, y'know? Never thought you'd see my new place."

Paul swallowed. Still not panicking. "Is- is it okay? That I'm here?"

She glanced at him then, and the smile on her lips was small but sincere. "It's great that you're here, Paul."

"Because I'd understand if it wasn't. I mean, I'd understand if you were a little... freaked out. I know I'm, y'know. Different."

Now he was the one who couldn't make eye contact. He was staring at his hands in his lap, at his blue-tinged nail beds when he felt the tap on his chin, a slender finger angling his face until it was turned towards Emma. It took another second to work up to courage to meet her eyes, scared of letting her look into his own, scared of letting her see the ravaged remains up close.

Emma smiled cautiously, hand hovering by his face. "Y'know, all things considered? You're looking pretty good."

His busted heart skipped a beat. "Uh. Thanks. You too- I mean, you look _better_ than I do, obviously, but- sorry. I ruined it."

"We've really gotta teach you how to take a compliment, huh?" She chewed her lip fondly and dropped her hand to pat his shoulder. "C'mon- let's go inside."

"Emma, I..."

She paused to look at him, expectant.

Paul swallowed thickly, and he tried his best to keep looking at her but his eyes wanted to dart away and look at absolutely anything else. "I sing now. Like, a lot. I can't help it, it's- it's when I'm anxious, or happy, basically any feeling stronger than 'meh' and it's a thing that happens and I can't control it- and I get anxious a _lot_ now, so it's a thing, and it sucks and maybe I should find somewhere else to-"

"Paul, breathe."

He inhaled sharply, her voice easily cutting through his panic like a hot knife through butter, and exhaled of a shaky chuckle. "Heh. Sorry."

She laughed a little too, rubbing her head, Paul hyper aware of the slight whisper of her fingers through short, spiky strands. "Paul, it's... it's okay. Really. I mean, I _get_ it. I get pretty messed up about.... everything. Sometimes. But hey, I got a secret weapon." When Paul cocked his head curiously, she gestured to the window. "See this field?"

Paul peered out in the direction she indicated, really taking in the surroundings for the first time. Late afternoon sun beating down on an uneven gravel-specked dirt drive, an old but well-maintained farm house, bordered on the front with a sun-bleached porch and a ramp that looked considerably newer than the rest of it. Surrounding the house, five-foot and verdant green crops, motionless in the dry, still Colorado air. "This all yours?"

"Yep. Five acres." She smirked. "Wall to wall pot."

"No way," he laughed, turning to grin at her fondly. "You got your pot farm!"

"Fuck yeah- and it's good shit, too. I, uh, I finished my botany course online. I was kinda done with professors. Anyway, I'm just saying, five acres of free anxiety meds, right on our doorstep. Pretty sweet deal."

With their combined anxieties, he had to wonder if five acres would cut it. "Yeah, pretty sweet."

Emma considered him a second, shifting in her seat. "Hey... look, Paul... If you really wanna leave, that's cool. But I hope you don't. I've... I've missed you."

His throat clicked. "Oh."

"And I wanna be around," she added, fidgeting. "Y'know, in case something cool or well, fuckin' terrifying happens, okay, like. I've missed enough already, and I'm done missing shit. Plus you're the only guy I'd trust in the apocalypse 'cause, y'know, I already did." She settled herself with a deep breath, and her eyes flicked up to meet his with a small smile. " _Plus_ , you still owe me dinner and a movie."

He couldn't tell if it was music bubbling in his stomach or just plain old butterflies.

Whatever it was, he didn't hate it.

"But hey, I don't wanna like, guilt trip you or anything, just…” Emma sighed. “Look, forget about worrying for a second, forget about what you think I need. What do _you_ want, Paul? Do you wanna stay or not?"

God, he hated that question.

But he hated it a lot less when he knew the answer.

"Yeah. I wanna stay."

It was a pretty nice place, all told. Roomy, a little old but well-preserved, high ceilings and good, natural light. It was a good space; the most jarring thing about it was how empty it felt. Emma's stuff, what there was of it, only occupied a few square feet of living room near the TV. He figured she probably had some essentials in the kitchen, too, and he _hoped_ she had more in her bedroom, even just a couple things that kept her warm and made her smile, 'cause so far the only signs of those were a crumpled comforter on the couch and an empty mug on the coffee table. The mug had a picture of a cactus wearing shades, and the word 'prick' in a speech bubble coming from its flat mouth. So far it was the brightest, most Emma-esque thing he'd seen.

Paul couldn't help scanning the barren walls as Emma had shown him to his bedroom, so tall and blank from his low vantage point in his wheelchair. He wasn't exactly a maximalist living guy himself, and he wasn't saying she needed _clutter_ , but even a poster would have made the place look less like a haunted house and more like a home. He took a moment to mourn the Back to the Future poster on his wall back home, and then another to wonder if Emma had seen that movie. Maybe he'd show her sometime; they'd have to laugh at the bad CGI and parts that hadn't aged well, but he figured she'd get a kick out of the soundtrack. Of course, he’d feel compelled to sing along to _Johnny B. Goode_ , now. That sucked.

After a few halting moments she'd left him in his room to 'unpack'. They both knew he had a duffel full of clothes and not much else, but he let her go all the same. She probably needed to adjust to his presence in the house a little, every bit as much as he did.

Sorting through the clothes took a depressingly short time. He wondered who'd been tasked with buying them- they all looked about the right size, and a lot newer than he'd assumed, but they weren't really his usual thing. Lots of flannel shirts, khakis, some jeans. His favourite thing was a soft maroon sweater that he spent a good five minutes just running through his fingers. None of the rest of it really felt like Paul Matthews, but... he guessed that was kind of the point.

Sighing and folding the sweater in the drawer with the rest, Paul was about to make a start on the underwear- and wondering how his mystery shopper knew he was a boxer-briefs kinda guy- when he saw a thick A4 envelope tucked away at the bottom of the bag. He glanced at the top of the dresser, where the file containing all his new papers lay right where he left it a few minutes ago, and then back to the second mystery envelope in confusion before reaching down to retrieve it.

With the bag set aside and the new envelope in his lap, Paul carefully peeled back a corner of the opening until he had room to run his finger down the rest, revealing inside-

Paul snorted, and tipped the envelope out into his lap. The notebooks slid out to land in it with a whisper of pleather against paper. One of them looked brand new, crisp and clean and waiting to be filled. The other, more familiar one was dogeared to heck, and full of the half-delirious sentimental scrawlings of a quarantined loser.

Flicking through his letters, Paul chuckled sadly. Shirley hadn't left a note, but she didn't need to. "Had to give me the option, huh?"

The book felt heavy in his hands. It sounded crazy, but it was almost like the weight of the words inside was dragging it down. He weighed them carefully against the fresh, blank book, but that one was daunting in a whole other way. Empty pages waiting to be filled with his new life from this point on, but... what the hell would that even look like?

In the end he put the blank book on the side, next to the rest of his new identity, and tucked the full one under his arm. The new book was a whole new mystery, something to tackle later. And the old one...

He figured he knew what he needed to do with it.

It didn't take long to find Emma; the biggest delay was in easing his chair around the tight corner between his bedroom door and the opposing wall, a manoeuvre that was gonna take some getting used to. Pretty much as soon as he managed that and quickly rolled the remaining stretch of hall he saw her, standing in the kitchen and staring at the coffeemaker. Which didn't seem to be turned on. Paul didn't really wanna interrupt, but... he wasn't sure _what_ he was interrupting, so he politely cleared his throat anyway.

It caught her attention, so she couldn't have been that engrossed. "Oh. Hey, Paul. All done?"

He shrugged. "Not much to do. Hey, uh- do you have a paper shredder or something?"

"Totally normal, not suspicious request."

"I think the US government's done all my shady cover-ups for me," he said. It was a strained attempt at lightness, but she smirked a little so he stood by it. "No, it's for... I, uh, I had a therapist for a while. She made me write all these letters and I... I don't think I wanna share a room with them anymore."

"Letters, huh?" She thought a second, and pushed off from the counter with a hum. Heading towards the living room, she slipped behind Paul and ran her fingers lightly across the span of his shoulders en route. "That sounds real familiar..."

Paul tried not to stare to openly- or reveal how much the simple brush of her fingers had affected him- as Emma stopped by the couch and started patting it down like a border patrol officer. "Em...?"

She didn't reply straight off, occupied now in running her hands down the crevices between the couch cushions. But he got his answer when she made a small noise of triumph and pulled a small, orange notebook from between the left and middle spots. A book identical to his own in all but colour.

"Just kinda stuck 'em where I wouldn't have to see 'em," Emma explained, holding the book at arm's length like it might bite her. "Kinda wrote them thinking I could, like, toss 'em in a fire right after."

 _"Right?"_ Paul exclaimed, leg bouncing a little. "I thought the same thing!"

"Right, I mean, who the fuck writes vulnerable emotional shit unless you're gonna cathartically burn it?"

_"Exactly."_

Emma nodded sharply, resolute. "Well, screw it. That's what's gonna happen. C'mon, Paul; time to burn some shit."

Now _that_ was a plan he could get behind.

They didn't actually get to the _burning shit_ right away. First they needed a fire, which meant Emma hoisting a big old tin bucket from the shed onto the porch and going in search of a few dry twigs to get them started. And Paul, unable to help much from his chair but uneasy doing nothing, made himself at home in the kitchen a while. He only meant to scout it out, maybe grab a glass of water, but when his grumbling stomach loudly reminded him how long ago lunch was, his plans changed.

When Emma showed up ten minutes later dusting off her hands, Paul had propped himself up on shaky legs by the counter, figured out the gas stove and got a couple eggs cracked into a non-stick pan that looked like it had never been used. He wasn't the greatest cook in the world, but even he could handle scrambled eggs okay.

To his relief, Emma hadn't got mad or said anything about him raiding her fridge without permission. Instead she looked at the contents of the pan, smiled slightly, and started telling him all about her chickens as she fished around for more stuff to add to the eggs. The birds had a space out back, in a stretch of the land that she figured would be too tough to plough and prep for her weed crop, and she kept calling them things like 'fussy broads' and 'fat lil' monster trucks'. Paul was so delighted and enraptured by Emma lovingly ribbing a bunch of chubby birds he nearly burned the food.

By the time they made it out to the porch, plates in Emma's hands and books in Paul's lap, the sun had disappeared below the softly undulating horizon, behind crops and grasses swaying in the wind like waves. Paul missed the sunlight, for a second, until he looked straight up at the sky and found a new sight to transfix him. More stars than he'd seen in his entire _life_ in Hatchetfield, stretching out into infinity, not a drop of earthly light for miles around to obscure them. Amazing, awe-inspiring natural beauty like he'd never seen before.

Then Emma told him how hard it was to sleep here the first couple months, feeling like a million tiny eyes were watching and waiting, and that was kind of a buzzkill. But the beauty was pretty undeniable, even with an edge of very real threat as he remembered what chaos just one little shard of star scrap falling to earth had caused.

Bellies full, plates set aside and notebooks back in their respective owners' hands, it was time to get to the point. When Emma set the dry kindling alight with the same matches Paul had used on the stove, the smoke drifted thick and heavy across those stars like thunderclouds, momentarily blinding their beady eyes. Feeling a little safer, somehow, Paul opened his book and flicked through, a little unsure what to do now they'd made it this far- did he just toss the whole thing, cover and all?

He looked up, almost subconsciously, to Emma for guidance. He found her gathering up about five pages and tearing them from the bindings in a clump. She caught his eye and shrugged, waving the separated stack at him. "Zoey. It's mostly shade."

Paul snorted, but he felt a little lighter. He thumbed his way to the end of the first letter in his own book and carefully tore the pages free. "Charlotte. Mostly me being awkward."

"Legit."

"Ladies first?"

She smirked. "Pussy." She took the lead anyway, sending her pages to the flames. Paul's followed, and his last words to Charlotte shrivelled and blackened in the heat.

And so it went for a while, the two of them taking turns tearing out pages in fatter and fatter stacks, batting names back and forth like some kind of weird, morbid verbal tennis match. It was heavy, and sometimes it felt like Paul was throwing his own limbs into the fire, but Emma's caustic commentary at his side was easily enough to get him through the earlier letters, the less emotionally-invested ones. He felt a little bad, honestly, at how easy it became to wave goodbye to Ted and Charlotte and a handful of other loose acquaintances and semi-estranged family members, their pages gone in the blink of an eye along with Emma's for Nora and Zoey and some folks from her classes. But it quickly became harder from there. For both of them.

"Goodbye, you... fabulous wackjob," said Emma as her letter to Professor Hidgens caught alight, conflicted sadness glittering in her eyes with the flames.

"Bye, Bill," Paul murmured, hands shaking and heart aching as a dozen pages met their fate.

"Later, Tom. I still kinda think you suck. Sorry you're gone, though."

"I'm sorry, Alice..."

"Tim..."

Paul held his letter to McNamara aloft a second, swallowed, and offered a clumsy salute as it went in the fire. "John."

Emma seemed to be deliberating over the remains of her notebook, and Paul saw her hands shake. He couldn't imagine what was left, they'd both already sent their letters to their respective parents into the flames. Then again, maybe those weren't the worst, since they were all technically still alive; as far as their families outside Hatchetfield were concerned, it was Paul and Emma who were in the ground. He hesitated, so unsure where their line was, what was normal for them now. Would it be weird to hold Emma's hand? Would it be weirder not to?

He settled for turning his own hand palm-up on the arm of his wheelchair. After a second, she laid hers over the top of it.

"Last one?" Paul asked softly, weighing his words carefully.

"Second last." She took a deep breath and let it all out in a little huff, shaking her head. "Dunno why it's the hardest- I mean, I lost her _waaaaaay_ before all this shit went down."

It clicked. "Jane..."

"Yeah."

He nodded, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. "I mean. You could keep that one. If you're not ready to let her go yet."

Emma smiled sadly and shook her head a little. "No. No, I... it's time." She looked over at him, and she looked sad but her eyes were bright in the firelight. "I'm gonna need my hand back though."

"Oh. Yeah." He let go, and probably did a real crappy job pretending he didn't miss the contact already.

She took another deep breath, this time exhaling in time with the slow, careful drag of the pages tearing free. Good thing these journals were held together with shitty glue, otherwise the twenty page wedge she just pulled free would have put up way more of a fight. It looked enormous in her small hands, probably looked about as huge as the confessions inside. Paul couldn't even imagine.

Unlike the flutter of the lighter stacks, when Jane's letter hit the firewood it collided with a sound proportional to the weight of the words, sending a cloud of sparks up against the smoky backdrop of the veiled night sky. Paul found himself watching those sparks instead of the burning paper, watching them dance with the smoke and stars until they fizzled out into nothing. Watching the sparks die felt sad, but right. He wasn't going to say that out loud.

Beside him, he heard Emma sigh. She sounded older. He could relate.

"So," said Paul quietly, looking down to his hands as they restlessly folded and unfolded a corner of paper back and forth. "Only one left, huh?"

"Yeah. What about you?"

"Same."

"Huh. Neat."

Paul tremulously smoothed down the creased page, and Emma's name stared back at him. He made a move to tear it out, but somehow he found he couldn't quite gain purchase on the paper.

"I..." He furrowed his brow. "This one's not quite the same. I- I don't think it's a goodbye anymore."

Emma stayed silent, and in that moment he realised she knew exactly who his last letter was addressed to. Maybe she looked over and saw her name, maybe he was just that obvious, but she knew alright. He wondered what she thought about it. Did she want him to burn it? Did she want to read it? Did she even _have_ a preference? Why did he _care_ , it was his damn letter.

"Hey, Paul?"

He looked up, and found her looking at her own book instead of at him. "Yeah?"

"Can I- look, feel free to say no and tell me to fuck off, but..." She snapped her book shut and held it out, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "Wanna trade?"

Paul blinked. "Oh."

"I just- I think you already know who it's for, okay. Same way I think I know who yours is for. And like, you don't have to read it. Hell, part of me is kinda hoping you won't, y'know, I'm not good with that whole mortifying ordeal of being known crap. But... I kinda wanna give you the option. If you don't want it, you can burn it with the rest. Promise I won't say shit."

His fingers tightened reflexively on his own notebook a second, clinging to all the deeply personal thoughts and confessions in his last few pages. The idea of handing it over to her, even if there was a fifty fifty chance she'd just burn it herself was... scary. He wasn't exactly closed off about his feelings, in fact he knew damn well he'd never successfully hidden an emotion in his life, but this was just _intimate_ in a way they'd never managed to be, never had the _time_ to be. Maybe even intimate in a way he'd never been with a partner in his life, not that there'd been many of them. He considered just lobbing the book on the fire in panic, taking this swap off the table immediately.

It was only when he inwardly recoiled at that idea that he realised which option he really wanted.

Paul steadied himself with a rattling sigh, and held out the book in one shaking hand. "Deal."

Emma nodded, face deadly serious, and held out her own book while reaching for his. It was like some weird, shady back-alley trade off, except instead of swapping money for drugs or bombs or illegal imported lizards or something they were handing off a couple gutted notebooks with pieces of their hearts in the pages. Honestly, they might as well have been bombs; Paul sure couldn't shake the feeling that the tiniest mishandle could destroy them both.

Her notebook was still warm from her hands when it found its way into his own. Despite being identical in size and shape to his own, it still felt strange and foreign and dangerous in his grasp. A part of him wanted to chuck it in the fire on reflex. Who knew what he'd find inside? Confessions to rival his own? Secrets that would make him rethink moving into a house in the middle of nowhere with her? Or maybe just a long, sincere expression of utter disinterest?

He clutched it to his chest instead. It felt strange, and heavy, but like it was right where it needed to be. He breathed.

Emma let out a breath of her own, brushing off the forest green cover of his book. He could see the cogs turning in her mind, undecided, but she hadn't thrown it on the fire. Yet.

"So," Paul offered awkwardly. "Feel lighter?"

She snorted again. "I, uh. I dunno about _light_ but I sure feeling... _something."_

"Yeah. Me too."

No more words passed between them. Seemed they were both happy to sit quietly a while, watching the fire die as it burned through every last scrap of paper it could find. Watching the last struggling sparks melt into the night, dissipating with the smoke shield to leave nothing but stars. Paul didn't have to look at Emma to know she was looking at them, too, every bit as intently as he was. He could almost hear her thoughts, treading similar paths to his own. Their curiosity met and mingled in the air, along with their dread, as they stared out into the vastness of the universe and wondered what else was up there, looking back.

Praying they would never, _never_ find out.

_Hey, Paul._

_So._ Yikes. _Hi. Whaaaaaat. I don’t know what I’m doing. Shit. It’s weird, you’re so easy to talk to ~~well, you WERE~~ but now I’m writing you and I’m just drawing a total blank. Maybe I shoulda doodled on this page a little first, make it seem less empty- you ever notice how freaky blank pages are?_

_...Ha. Smart. Trick me into writing by making me ramble bout how hard it is. Classic Paul. I think._

_Kinda hard to believe I only talked to you for like… less than a day? You told me you hated musicals on a Thursday, and on Friday guess what, world fucking ended. Fucking typical. But even though I barely knew you, and we didn’t really get to_ talk _talk aside from that time in my crazy bio professor's bunker, something about talking to you was just easy. Even when you were awkward as fuck. I don’t know if it’s like those big blue puppy eyes or just how kinda_ chill _you were even when you were clearly anxious as hell, but you just made me feel, I dunno, safe? You were… I didn’t tell you this but, uh, you were kinda the first person I told. About Jane. I mean, obviously people_ knew _what happened to her, and they knew what I was studying but I never really put the two together for anyone else. I never put it into words before, how much I needed to feel like I was doing something, anything with my life, because of_ her. _The pressure I felt, now she wasn’t there to distract my parents, now I was visible, I knew that’s how I felt, what I was doing, but I didn’t tell anyone. Until you. So what is it about you, Paul?_

 _You know… I noticed you. A while ago. I kinda played it cool, when we talked the first time, but I remembered you. And I know I already told you, kinda, that I knew why you came in and drank our shit coffee so much, but I didn’t tell you that I always looked forward to it. Even before we talked, something about you felt kinda chill. Like, even though I knew you were looking at me, a_ lot, _I never felt like I had to try hard or feel pressured. You just kinda drifted in, hovered, gave me smiles and tips and took your coffee and left and_ maybe _it’s ‘cause the bar of customer decency was_ so damn low, _but I appreciated it. Every time. I liked that you came in, you made my life easy for like five minutes and no matter what, you always smiled at me. A_ real _one, not that phony shit I’m supposed to do all the time. I thought about talking to you a lot, saying a lil’ something more than ‘can I take your order’ or ‘have a nice day!’, but… guess I was kinda worried that if I talked to you, you’d turn out to be a dick or creep like the rest of them._

 _We barely said anything, the first time you talked to me. I probably could have been less of a mess. But you listened to me vent and you made dumb jokes and laughed too hard at mine and it was, like,_ oh. _You really_ are _the sweet, awkward dork I thought you were. And it was great. I mean, yeah, you freaked me out a little the_ next _time we talked but hey, I know why, now. Pretty fair response, actually, when you think about the implications. God, that was a weird start to a weirder fucking day, but… I’m glad you showed up. I’m glad you were there, and you warned me and got me outta there and I’m glad I got to join your lil’ apocalypse squad. Kinda. Honestly, Ted can eat a dick, but the rest of ‘em ~~are~~ were pretty okay. Guess I can’t hold Ted against you, though, not when I took you to fucking _Hidgens. _Sorry, btw. My bad._

 _I kinda have a lot of time to just think, now. Sometimes I think about what would've happened if Hidgens didn’t turn out to be a pro-invasion wacko. Would any of us have risked tryna take out the hive, or would we have hid out in his boozy fortress while the entire world went to shit outside? How long would we have lasted? I know it wouldn’t have been better, I know it wouldn’t have been worth the end of the world, but… I might have been cool. Just to have a few more days with you. Ugh, sorry, that was sappy and gross. Was it? I dunno, I don’t like,_ do _romance and shit. I mean, I have? A couple times? But I never really got to the saying cute shit stage, I dunno, it never felt right._

_You do. Did. Felt right, I mean._

_I’m sorry I never got to tell you. There’s a lot I didn’t tell you, stuff it felt okay not to tell you, I mean, we’d only been on speaking terms for a freakin’ day. But if I could go back, if I_ knew _how it was all going to end, maybe… maybe I could have taken a chance._

 _I think- I don’t_ know, _obviously, but I have a feeling that… you could have been a guy I told stuff. I already did, sorta, but Paul what I told you is just the tip of the shitty iceberg. There’s just, all this_ bullshit _I’ve been carrying, like in a backpack or something, all the way to freakin’ Guatemala and back and I just assumed I’d always be carrying it, by myself, forever. I think I probably will, now, after what happened, I… I dunno, it’s hard to picture being_ me _with anyone else, anyone new. I mean, technically Emma Perkins is dead, I’m literally under government orders not to ‘be myself’._

 _But- and this is a_ lot _for me so just like, shut up and don’t say anything ~~not that you can say anything you’re fucking dead Jesus Chri~~ I wanna say, uh. When I told you about Jane, and I could feel you there, just listening, not judging, and joking around when I really needed to smile, it’s like. Like I put that big backpack of bullshit down for a second. And it was okay. It was good._

_Paul… I wish you were here. ‘Cause my backpack of bullshit is heavier than ever and right now the only person I want to help me carry it is you._

_So no, I don’t really do romance. Or y’know, vulnerability, ever. I don’t really know how, but… for you, I kinda think it would have been worth a shot._

_~~I wan~~ ~~I lov~~ I miss you._

_...And I_ really _hope there aren’t any heavenly choirs where you are right now. You’d fucking hate that._

It wasn’t loud, the soft click-sweep of his crutches reaching forward and his socked feet grazing the hardwood floor in their wake, but in the silence of the house it felt deafening. Too loud, but quieter than the chair would have been, so he’d take it. McNamara’s watch said it was well after 3 a.m., and Paul wasn’t about to be that asshole houseguest who rattled around loudly in the the night. Today had been tough, and Emma deserved her sleep.

Paul probably needed it, too, but… not much chance of that happening right now.

Maybe he shouldn’t have read it. Or re-read it. Six times. But she _did_ give it to him, so she must have known it was a possibility. It’s not like she burned his letter, either. Granted, that didn’t necessarily mean she’d read it, or intended to read it, but the point was they’d both had the opportunity and Paul… well, he couldn’t resist. Even though he knew it could have been painful, or heartbreaking, or he might have learned something discouraging or unflattering about Emma’s thoughts on him, he couldn’t just _not_ read it. But he was glad he did, _god,_ he was glad; he barely paused to take a breath the entire time he was reading, hope and disbelief bubbling in his chest.

It raised questions, though, and he hadn’t been able to stop mulling them over all night. Did she still feel… _that way_ for him? Even now, nearly a year later, after the most traumatic experience of both their lives? Even now he was a zombie- a _singing_ zombie, at that? If she didn’t, would he ever outlive the regret of losing his one shot with her? And if she _did,_ how did they… move on, from here? Who was meant to take the first step? Were either of them brave enough? He wasn’t sure he was. He’d been broken apart and pieced back together so many times these last few months, he didn’t know if he could handle another crack.

Took about eight million thoughts along similar lines for him to realise he wasn’t helping himself at all, and he should probably get his head out of his ass and take his mind off stuff with some crappy late night TV.

His plan was to make it to the couch as quietly as possible, throw the TV on mute with closed captions and pass a couple hours watching whatever he could find until he was tired enough to sleep. If he and Emma were gonna talk tomorrow- and, well, they probably _should-_ he needed to get his mind right, and she needed her sleep.

That plan kinda got shot to hell when he reached the living room and found that someone else had the same idea.

Paul stared at the back of Emma’s head a moment like a deer in the headlights, wondering if she’d heard him coming. Wondering if it was worth just turning round and leaving now, or if that would be weirder than announcing himself. If she was engrossed or zoned out she might not have noticed him yet, but if she _had_ it would be obvious he was running away. But would that be as weird as trying to join her? Would barging in on her time be weirder that beating a quick escape? Great. Two potentially very awkward social situations and he was caught slap bang in the middle. Oh hi worst nightmare.

“Hey, Paul.”

He tried not to jump, and _almost_ succeeded. “H-hi.”

She didn’t say anything else, or turn to face him, but he guessed that was better. It was like she was giving him space to make the next move, if he wanted to. He toyed with the idea of grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen, pretending that’s all he came out for and then retreating. Then he threw the idea out.

“You, uh… Can I hang out in here?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, lips quirked up in a small smile. “Sure.”

He let out a breath and nodded, not realising ‘til relief flooded him how much he hadn’t wanted to go back to his room. Hobbling the last few feet to the couch, he lowered himself stiffly onto the opposite end of it from Emma, giving her as much space as he could and leaning his crutches carefully against the arm when he was settled. The couch was made for three people at least, a whole seat between him and Emma, and the space seemed to yawn wider than a canyon but he let it be. He had no idea what was going to happen next, or if she’d even say another word. He waited a good couple minutes before he risked a glance at her.

The light of the screen played on her face, some shitty late-night shopping channel casting its artificial white glow on her cheekbones. God, he’d had enough of soulless white light, he didn’t like seeing it in here, with her. Emma should be lit in warm tones, crackling bonfires and cosy lamplight. Even the shitty lighting at Beanie’s had its charms, weirdly suited her. White, or god forbid _blue,_ was just about the last thing Paul wanted to see, but he bit down the anxiety and tried to just take in the woman beneath the lights. The glow was so pronounced on her cheekbones because the bones themselves were more pronounced, he realised. Not dangerously so, but Paul couldn’t help wondering how well she’d been eating. She rested her cheek on her hand and sagged into the arm of the couch a little, and her little finger lightly traced two, three times over the bruise-like shadow under her eye. He wondered if she knew she was doing that. How many times did a person need to see their tired eyes in the mirror and internalise it to form an unconscious habit? Was she here every night, watching mind-numbing shit on TV because she knew sleep wasn’t an option?

She may have looked tired, but her eyes weren’t. Bright and shrewd as always, they flickered like candles in the dark. But he realised they weren’t looking at the TV, or even its general direction. Instead they were downturned, towards her lap and a familiar gutted notebook.

Paul briefly reconsidered fleeing.

Emma sighed, smiled, and closed the book, setting it aside on the coffee table without a word. Paul let out a slight sigh of his own, relieved. He was down to talk about this, if she wanted to, but seeing the book open in her lap was kinda like seeing his own heart dissected on the coffee table.

But she didn’t jump straight to the heavy talk; instead she squinted wearily at the TV screen and frowned. “Hey, you got the time? Think I left my phone on the porch.”

Something like laughter but sadder bubbled up in Paul’s chest. He held out his wrist. “Wear a watch.”

Emma didn’t get the joke, or even get that it _was_ a joke as she hummed under her breath and pulled his wrist closer to peer at the clockface. But that was okay, it wasn’t really funny anyway. Paul figured you kinda had to be there. He’d tell her about it, though. One day.

“Shit,” she huffed, shaking her head. “Y’know, if I still worked at Beanie’s, I’d have to be up two hours. I always got saddled with the morning shift.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Eh, I’d make it three. Who cares about warming the pastries, right?” She grumbled something else under her breath and shifted, folding her legs up under her. Her fingers, gently cupped around his wrist, didn’t let go but shifted too, sliding down to clasp lightly around his hand instead, lingering even as she settled into her new position.

Paul, heart hammering (figuratively speaking), gave her fingers a light, experimental squeeze. He ducked his head to hide the smile when she returned the gesture.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed after that, his hand in hers angled so he couldn’t see the watch. But he knew it passed quietly, pleasantly, with the occasional slow arc of Emma’s thumb against the back of his hand sending his lazy pulse skittering. And he knew that when she spoke again, face gentle and voice slow and serious, that the first rosy traces of dawn were poking through the drapes to dispel that white light from her face.

“So,” she said, quiet but confident. “You any closer to figuring it out?”

Paul cocked his head curiously. She returned it with a wry smile. It was around that moment that he realised how much closer they’d moved, how the span of couch between them had dwindled to a good few inches. “Figuring what out?”

She shrugged, glancing back at the TV. “You know. What you want.”

Kind of felt like a question within a question. Was she asking if he read her letter? What he thought about it, or wanted to do about it? Was she invested in that answer, or just curious? Or was it totally unrelated, and she was just being a good friend, checking in on him after his first day back in the real world?

Took him a moment, but he realised it didn’t matter why she was asking; he knew the answer. For once. For now, at least, he knew _exactly_ what he wanted.

“This,” he said softly, squeezing her hand and swallowing his nerves to meet her eyes. “With you. If- if that’s okay.”

He tried to put everything else in his eyes that he couldn’t say, yet. Stuff like _‘I promise I’ve thought about this’, ‘I promise I’m telling the truth’, ‘it’s okay if it isn’t okay’._ It had been a long time since he had to communicate his feeling in person. Maybe he should just write another letter.

Emma met his gaze, though, and he knew she could see what he wasn’t saying. And she understood. And with a small smile and smaller nod, she accepted. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

 _“O-_ kay.”

He didn't know if it was the slight musicality of her voice or just the happiness bubbling up in his own chest, but his tongue felt light with the phantom tingle of a song waiting to burst out. He bit it back and softly underlined it with one more quiet, giddy repetition. "Okay."

Emma snorted, the word 'dork' escaping under her breath. But her smile reached her eyes, and her hand didn't leave his.

Paul looked down at those hands, turning hers over slightly in his. Hers were smaller, more slender, but calloused and strong in a way he'd never earned for himself, skin toughened from her months of keeping her fields and probably time in Guatemala, the barest traces of coffee burns from Beanies' marking her knuckles. If he angled it right, he could look at their fingers intertwined without catching a glimpse of the telltale blue tinge at the edges of his own fingernails. Could almost imagine seeing this exact sight, but elsewhere, hands clasped over a coffee shop counter or a park bench. Lost memories from a time that never got the chance to exist. He almost told her as much. Sitting together like they were, it felt like he could tell her anything.

But first, he needed to ask _her_ something. "Emma?"

"Yeah?"

"What do _you_ want?"

Her eyes scanned his face shrewdly, and he resisted the urge to cover it with something. Hopefully that pinkish dawn light was doing good things for his complexion like it was for hers. Her slow grin said it couldn't be hurting.

"I think I kinda wanna kiss you right now."

Paul nearly swallowed his tongue. "Oh."

"Do you mind?"

 _Not even a little._ "I... think you should do that. Yes. If you want to."

"Oh, I want."

"Okay."

"Awesome."

He closed his eyes, partly out of habit; partly to keep her from seeing the busted things up close. Even with those hidden he half-awaited the moment she'd get too close and change her mind, or recoil from the feeling of kissing someone who was room temperature at best. He couldn't help holding his breath.

But her lips found his easily, and lingered. Her other hand found his neck and cupped the back of it, holding him close. A little protective, almost possessive. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine.

Her lips only stayed a moment before she broke to give him a little space, but her hands never so much as shook. Briefly they parted, and Paul breathed.

And when his lungs were full again- of air, of light, of a song begging to be sung- he leaned back in, and this time they lingered together.

“Hey, Paul?”

“Hmm?” Paul didn’t even open his eyes. With his head pillowed on Emma’s stomach and her fingers carding through his hair, he was too comfortable to.

“What name did they give you? New name, I mean.”

Paul frowned. “You mean they actually told you it was me you were picking up?”

“Yeah.” Emma chuckled a little. “Guess they wanted me to brace myself, since I was gonna be behind the wheel. For a long time I thought you were…”

Paul found her other hand where it hung limply over the side of the couch, pulled it to his chest. “I thought you were… that, too. They, uh, didn’t give me much warning though, just said ‘Kelly’ was picking me up.”

“Oh, man, you must have been flipping _out.”_

“Losing my shit, yep.”

Emma’s laugh could light up rooms. “So, c’mon, what’d they call you? I wanted something more like my name and they said no deal, so if you tell me yours is _Paulie Batthews_ or something-”

“It’s Ben,” he laughed, squeezing her hand. “Ben Bridges.”

Emma went silent and rigid, and Paul tensed up in turn. Did he say something wrong? Shit, does he have the same name as a dickhead ex-boyfriend or horrible boss? Emma’s whispered ‘are you fucking kidding me’ didn’t fill him with confidence. “Em…?”

She pulled her hand free from his, but didn’t get up or dislodge him. Instead she stretched out her arm and felt around on the coffee table, haphazardly sliding some half-empty chip packets aside until she found a bank card. _“Yes,_ still here…”

“You probably shouldn’t leave that lying around…”

“Who’s gonna come steal it, the chickens?” she brushed a couple crumbs off the blue plastic and offered it to him. “Sometimes you’re just depressed enough to drink wine and watch the shopping channel at two a.m, man.”

Paul gingerly took the card, holding it close to his face in both hand. He had to squint a little in the dull light of early dawn to make out the impressions of the little silver letters and digits. A card number, obviously, an expiration date, and a name.

_Mrs Kelly Bridges._

Heat flooded his face. “Oh.”

“Paul,” she said levelly, stealing the card from his hand and lightly tapping it on his forehead. “You got any idea why the US government _ships_ us?”

“I may have… said something. To a guy, a while back. It was, uh, kinda just wishful thinking.”

“What guy?”

Paul looked down at his wrist. McNamara’s watch glistened in the low light, Emma’s forearm resting easily beside it. He smiled slightly.

“A real gossipy bitch, apparently.”

In some ways, it felt like time sped up. The last few weeks, months, _whatever_ since she brought Paul home passed quicker than anything else so far in that big, empty house in the middle of nowhere. In other ways, it felt like they'd always lived like this, this little quiet domestic schtick.

Plot twist; she didn't hate it.

Paul was a permanent fixture in her house now, that much was obvious. Took him a while to accept that, of course, but she didn't take it personally. She knew he wasn't hedging his bets because he _wanted_ to leave; he was just such an awkward dork he couldn't let himself believe he wasn't imposing on her space. For a few weeks he wouldn't stop mentioning that he was scoping out jobs and apartments online, hastily adding that he wasn't planning on going far, and he was grateful, really, and he was just thinking ahead. Emma just arched her brows, said ‘Sure, Paul,’ and threw candy or peanuts for him to catch in his mouth until his serious face cracked.

Eventually something flipped a switch- maybe he finally decided that if Emma had wanted him gone he’d be gone, maybe he just couldn’t handle the idea of being out there alone. Either way, Emma got what she wanted; Paul stopped talking about leaving, and started treating the house like it was his as well as hers. She had no idea how long it took to get there- seriously, what even _is_ time?- but the day a shitty flat-packed Ikea bookshelf addressed to Paul showed up on the porch, she knew he’d shelved (heh.) his plans of leaving. And honestly, she was glad.

So glad she even helped him _assemble_ the damn thing.

Never again.

After that things just kinda… settled. Paul seemed calmer, now he was laying down roots and treating his room like _his room,_ not a motel. Not that he always _slept_ in his room- for reasons ranging from fun to depressing, he wound up in Emma’s most of the time- but hey, they had plenty of space, and it was good that he had a chunk of it to himself. Sometimes, when the singing started at night, he didn’t handle it so well. Sometimes, neither did Emma.

Yeah. So they had a ways to go. This thing they had wasn’t all sunshine and roses, and they both had their own baggage to deal with. But having Paul around helped _way_ more than it hurt. Sometimes even just knowing someone was _there,_ in the other room, humming under his breath while he read movie reviews on his phone was the difference between a minor space-out and a full-blown panic attack. Paul felt _safe,_ even though they were still figuring shit out. Even though they still didn’t know each other all that well, yet, when you stopped to think about it. Even when they had awkward times, or weird times, or kinda scary times.

Sometimes, even when his voice didn’t sound one hundred percent… like Paul.

“Ma’am?”

Emma blinked and looked up, yanked back into her very real conversation with a very bemused contractor that she just totally spaced out on for a second. “Oh. Shit, sorry, uh-” she grabbed at the clipboard being offered. Fortunately, she remembered at the last minute to sign her new name, although the ‘K’ in Kelly got pretty butchered with the first automatic lines of a more familiar ‘E’. Scribbling her new handle on the dotted line, she shoved the board back into the contractor’s hands awkwardly. “There.”

The lady- Ronnie? Ronnie.- smiled wryly and shook her head. “Been there. Not getting much sleep, right?”

“Uh, yeah, not exactly,” Emma muttered, self-consciously thumbing under her eye. She thought the bags were less obvious, now. Maybe she needed to get some concealer- she hadn’t worn fucking _make-up_ in ages, perks of living alone in the middle of nowhere.

“Well, you’ll sleep like a baby when we’re done,” said Ronnie, proudly patting one of the huge stacks of lumber as one of her little builder entourage offloaded it from the flatbed truck. “Sturdy fence will get you some peace of mind, nothin’ better. Well, maybe _one_ thing better- we can electrify this thing for a reasonable fee on top of the contract, if you wanna go the extra mile.”

Peace of mind sure was the idea, but Emma grimaced and shook her head. “Nah, we’re good… uh, well, maybe some other time.”

They’d both decided against electricity, or any other crazy fortifications. She and Paul weren’t gonna be _those_ people, even though with the shit they’d seen they probably had a right to be. It was just gonna be a fence. A tall one, yeah, and a tough one, but just a fence. They’d agreed, one mutual sleepless night in her bed with the curtains drawn, that being out in the open didn’t feel super safe anymore. They were being cautious, but not like… _Hidgens_ cautious.

It was probably long overdue, anyway- she was sick of the neighbour’s cows getting stoned off of her crops.

“Well, looks like we’re all set,” Ronnie told her, filing away the board and pen in the glove compartment of the pickup as her guys unloaded. “We can get started today, get this all fixed up over the next couple of weeks, so long as no nasty storms come rolling in.”

God, hopefully. Emma had seen enough nasty storms to last her a lifetime. “Sounds great. Uh, can I get you guys coffee, or?”

“I take it black-” she nodded at her little squad- “White for them, one with sugar.”

“Black coffee, huh,” Emma chuckled, backing off towards the house. “Sounds familiar. Cool, uh, I’ll go fix that up.”

“Thanks. Hey, Mrs Bridges?”

Emma smiled- it was half grimace, half genuine. The name- and the title- had kinda grown on her, but she could still be petty about it. “Yup?”

Ronnie smirked. It was either slightly mocking, or just the closest this lady could get to an easy smile. Somehow, Emma figured it was probably the latter. “Tell Mr. Bridges he’s got a real nice singing voice.”

Emma startled, opening her mouth to speak, but it was as Ronnie pointing it out flipped a switch in her brain because suddenly she could _hear_ it. The quiet crooning from way back in the house, floating through the open windows on the breeze. When did he start singing? Long enough for the contractor to notice. How long had Emma just tuned it out as part of her everyday soundtrack? “He, uh, he had some pretty intense training,” she rasped, backing off with a phony laugh.

“He’s good. Y’know, if he isn’t already, I could point him to a few choirs- not mine, he’s not exactly the _Jazzagals_ demographic, but there’s others meeting up in the community centre.”

“Thanks, I’ll tell him!” Emma didn’t wait for a response before she bolted for the house, closing the door on the conversation before she could see Ronnie look at her like she was a total nutjob.

A sense of safety settled on her the second she heard the click of the closing door. Amazingly, not affected at all by the singing, even though it was now closer and damn near impossible to ignore. Sliding the chain into place- not because she legit thought any of these contractors they vetted extensively before hiring would barge in or attack, just ‘cause it would have felt wrong _not_ to- she turned round and took a breath, eyes finding the source of the voice in a second.

Paul didn’t notice her, either; her presence must have blended into his background, just like his singing did into hers. He was in the kitchen again. He spent a lot of time there; Emma figured he just liked to feel productive, or useful, always cooking them simple meals from scratch or trying out stuff from YouTube tutorials, always making sure Emma had coffee or tea or hot cocoa in her hand before she even thought to ask. He didn’t seem to be making anything right now, though, just kinda leaning on the counter, just chilling. He was supporting himself pretty heavily with it, his crutch laid out of the way against the fridge for now. Must be feeling chipper, if he was one-crutching it today. Arms folded on the counter, his phone lying just above them, he looked like he was reading something and just felt like hanging in the kitchen to do it. Probably checking the news, or reading movie reviews. Whatever he was doing, he was really immersed; Emma would bet good money that he didn’t even _know_ his mouth was open and words were coming out. Loud enough to be heard by the workers outside, melodic enough to be complimented. A free show for the guests, and he had no idea.

_“What if I told you a story, ‘bout how we found a place that’s only for us; like to think it was inevitable…”_

Emma just watched him a second while she could get away with it, before he noticed her and got embarrassed. A part of her was waiting. Waiting for the fear to set in, waiting for that music to get under her skin and creep into the dark corners of her mind. She could feel it a little, in the back of her skull, telling her to _get out,_ get as far away from danger as possible.

But there was something else on top of it, smothering it, making her take a step closer instead of further away. Shit, what _was_ that…?

Paul looked up, jumped a little when he saw her, but went right back to smiling. Not creepily or anything. He didn’t seem like, _supernaturally_ happy. Or anxious, which was good. Actually, he didn’t really seem… anything, as such. Nothing dramatic, anyway. He was just looking a little dopy, tapping out an unconscious rhythm even as he trailed off from singing to smile at her, the face of that old watch he never took off clicking under his blue-tinged fingernails. Basically, he looked like a guy who’d just rolled out of bed to a comfy level of background chill, just kinda existing to whatever elevator music was playing in his head right now. He looked… content.

Oh, right. _Fond._ That was the other thing she felt, just watching him exist. Weird.

“Hey, Em,” he said- and he did just _say_ it, even though his voice pitched up a little as something like a note tried creeping out. “All good?”

“Yeah, all good, they’re getting started.” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the door. “But they all want coffee from the crooner in the kitchen.”

Paul blushed- which was still pretty, uh, _blue_ in a way she hadn’t gotten totally used to yet but didn't hate- and ducked his head. “Uh, sure- comin’ right up.”

Emma bit her lip and stepped closer. “Hey- for what it’s worth, Ronnie thinks you have a great voice.”

He kept quiet a second. Didn’t look at her when he uttered a grudging, but quietly flattered: “Thanks.”

Emma sighed, watching him switch on the coffeemaker in silence. She didn’t mean to make him feel awkward. She walked behind him to grab milk from the fridge, trailing her hand across his back as she passed- he always shivered a little when she did that, in a good way. Kinda hard not to exploit it. “Hey,” she said, tugging the hem of his shirt. “You take requests?”

He turned those big blue eyes on her. “...Maybe.”

She smiled and passed him the milk carton, letting her fingers linger over his when they brushed. “Got any ABBA for me?”

Paul snorted before he let himself laugh properly, doing that head-duck thing again.

And then, because he was fucking _adorable,_ he actually gave her what she asked for.

_“I’ve seen you twice, in a short time; only a week since we staaaarted-”_

Emma grinned and rubbed his arm. “Fuck yeah. Spotify whomst?”

The rest of the verse broke a little on his laughter, but Emma didn’t care. It sounded better than the original, anyway.

And the way the chorus sounded after she pulled his big dumb forehead down, kissed it and told him she loved him…

Shit, man. All the Swedish musicians and musical aliens in the world had nothing on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <333 Hope you liked; lemme know! Comments, as always, are my lifeblood!
> 
> This might be it for me for TGWDLM fic for a while, I've been fandom-hopping a lot recently and it isn't driving me to write atm. One day if I get another big surge of inspiration there may be a lil Black Friday fic about Paul and Emma babysitting Tim, and if I get a REALLY big surge maybe even the epic-proportions Stardust AU I started scribbling ideas for, but uh... I'm gonna say check back with me in a decade or so on that? Or just come message me on tumblr (dont-offend-the-bees), I may not feel driven to properly write and format fic for this fandom atm but I'm always happy to just chat ideas! ^^ Also check out my [Paulkins playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2n9qUSbQy2WIb5EArR9wr1?si=rpCg3H_2QyiA3zJIIMP_rg) if you like that kinda thing!
> 
> Thanks for reading, dears; I hope whatever stage of apocalypse you find yourself in, you're managing to carve out a little space just for the things you love <333


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